We question if our roof hen is legal
if the compost we hide in black bags will return to elements
or become conscious, a landfill of people
all wanting one thing— to make it through.
Stacked in plastic we will emerge, we will
shake oil from feathers and fly into neon sky
we soar, fearless, hungry, without our ghosts
but our bones, and our blood hold the weight of our humanity.
We will return to our Mother’s front lawn
share a laugh thru a window - behind a mask
wash our clothes in bathtubs, hang them outside.
There’s a line of questions strung from when to why
and if we fail to answer our mouths will be left
Round and loud and proud and lacking eggs